


CANDY CRUSH

by photographlessPhantasm



Series: [sugarcoated] [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Awkward Romance, GOSH, M/M, Tricksters, add in a pinch of awkward relationship hitches, and then tack on a goofy hot guy, and you have a serious romcom that would please Karkat, clueless #2, first in the series, how do I please these two women, it's a fic about a demon struggling with his humanity, maybeeeee, paranormal zoology, she likes to ramble, slow building relationship, sugarcoated au, tags likely to be added, the fickle goddess irony, the fickle goddess plot, then two over protective families, tight knit family, what do, what pumpkins, writer is a strider at heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-21 02:13:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/photographlessPhantasm/pseuds/photographlessPhantasm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>part of the sugarcoated AU</p>
<p>in which the strider-lalonde family is a collection of misfit demons who feed off of the binds of various relationships, and have really weird traditions surrounding how it works.</p>
<p>in which one Dirk Strider decides he’s tired of playing matchmaker for the world.</p>
<p>wherein his family desperately tries to keep him alive, and shenanigans occur...</p>
<p>involving one Jake English and a tirade of pumpkins.*</p>
<p>written because phan can't find a piece of work in which tricksters are portrayed as demons, and she figures that she's the man for the job. also written with all the subtlety of a hammer, but that might just be the opinions of the embarrassed teenagers keening at me in the background to write better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. fanum pollux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> _Her room was a temple, he decided graciously, nodding at the vague association._   
> 
> 
>   
> ... an introduction to the madcap adventures of the strider-lalonde household, a precursor to the majorly Dirk focused perspective, in we latch onto Dave’s brain for a while, since he’s actually in a better state of mind than Dirk right now.
> 
> using latin and greek in hedonistic title mashes since the early twenty-first century, vote Phan, for the twenty-thirteen rumpus writers’ guild leader-friend election.

 

 

 

 

one - fanum pollux

 

Caution was the best thing to exercise within the household. Caution, precision, manners, and good timing were all _necessary_ exercises within the Strider-Lalonde household; he lamented this carefully, as he rapped his knuckles against the oaken door frame he stood in. He didn’t knock because he was respecting his sister’s privacy, _no_ , he was knocking because _caution_ told him that if he _didn’t knock_ he might end up insulting and defiling not only his sister’s privacy, _but her trust of him,_ and he in turn would _suffer_ for his transgression.   
  
He knew she was generally open to visitation from any of the family, so long as they gave her enough warning. Her room was a temple, he decided graciously, nodding at the vague association. It was a temple in which she was the high priestess, and the temple held many a secret. The visitors to the temple were family, yet not well informed on the religion of her choosing, and thus, she needed time to determine their worthiness and mentality, as well as time to hide her displays of heathenism, if she dubbed them unworthy of the godly horrors the temple liked to put on display.  
  
A thin little smile crossed his lips as he let his eyes bore holes into the top of the doorframe, as he knew how _wrong_ and _weird_ the entire metaphor probably came across as. The same could be said of many a place within their home; the library was his own temple, just as Rose’s temple was her snug bedroom.  “Just a moment,” rang out from the room, shutting down his inane thought-process from there.   
  
He didn’t really watch the well dressed girl float about the room, merely letting her presence drift by him as he peacefully dismantled the ceiling with his eyes. The shift of heavy fabric indicated that today, she felt him unworthy of the secrets within the temple. Capatchaloging the notion she had recently changed something on her wall, he patiently waited for her to speak once more.  
  
Rose took a great deal of pleasure in settling down in one of her chairs, and announcing,  “Alright, David. The doctor is in.” He wasn’t fond of her elegant bastardization of his name, and he’d probably told her a thousand times  _J_ _esus, it’s just Dave._ With a snort that indicated he delighted in her ironic quote, but was displeased with her name usage, he wandered into the temple.   
  
He generally sought out her guidance conserning heavy topics, like,  _we’re immortal, and I’ve just fallen in love for the first time with a mortal, help;_ or  _I think I might be doing something wrong, can you help me on this front?_ Today, the topic of interest is not truthfully himself.

Which, he is keenly pleased with, in a horrible way. No, today the topic of interest is family.

To be more precise, Dave is currently worried out of his mind conserning his younger brother, Dirk.

The seat he determines as his own is sporting a horrible throw pillow, purple with golden tassels. The chair itself is a swank victorian knock-off that screams  _high-class psychologist_ . Idly, he reminds himself that there are a dozen of these chairs littered across the mansion, so perhaps they don’t deserve that much association with his sister. 

He tosses this cushion onto her bed, and sits in the most awkward manner he can in the cushy chair, a leg clacking against the sides of his sunglasses, arms tucked against his chest. It takes a long moment to get comfortable, and another moment to determine that the conversation that needs to happen... must happen without his favorite accessory. 

With an air of irritation, he removes his sunglasses, taking a moment to adjust to the florescent lights that burn his senses. The motion spurs his sister into speaking,  “This is a _serious_ discussion, then... shall I dim the lights?” He nods eventually, as squinting at her while he tries to talk is probably the antithesis of  _I am so fucking serious right now._

It’s more of a, _I’m so fucking blind right now, good lord, I hate my genetics,_ look.

The lights dim, and the room is basked in the soft glow from her computer. Dave’s eyes are quick to attune to the different lighting, and his facial expressions relax back into his typical pokerface. While Rose settles back into her seat, he sighs,  “I’m worried about Dirk.”

His hands are the best indication of just how  _worried_ he is. They’re in tight fists, balling up the fabric of his jacket as he speaks. He knows she can see his jawline tighten, knows she can sense him shifting back and forth in his chair as he fights to keep his pokerface.

Her face smooths over with worry, instead of creasing and cracking like his own facade tends to, her face has melted into a soft look of displeasure.  “What has brought about these feelings concerning Dirk, Dave?”

“I don’t think he’s eating. I... think he stopped taking care of himself... after...”

He trails off, cut short by the statement that hurts like hell to even  _attempt_ saying. Dirk isn’t the only one that felt like the world had stopped spinning that day, but he’s the only one in the family that the world  _didn’t_ seem to start spinning again for. Even Roxy has dulled the pain, and is moving forward with life...

_Dirk won’t let the world start spinning again,_ Dave thinks to himself with a twinge of guilt.

Rose has been mulling over the possibility, a thoughtful and pensive look on her face.  “Have you been able to confirm if he’s eating or not?”

“He won’t let anyone near his room. He doesn’t engage in my usual bullshit, and he gets very defensive when I attempt to foist brotherly semantics on his ass. As of late, he doesn’t even retaliate with his own brotherly antics. I haven’t had smuppet ass or proboscis probing my personal space in a month; he’s not engaged in  _your_ sisterly bullshit either, I’ve noticed. Plus, he's not left the house to hangout with freinds in a while. I feel like... like he’s purposely avoiding contact and emotional exchanges with  _me.”_

Dave’s words tumble away from him, as he furrows his eyebrows and details his thought process. He lists each transgression carefully, before grumbling,  “So, while unable to confirm if he’s _eating properly_ , I can tell you that he’s been awfully neglectful of the established family relationships he should be cultivating while acting like a shut-in, Lalonde.”

The hum that vibrates from the back of her throat is like a welcome nod. He’s been thinking on the subject _heavily,_ enough so that he had an actual argument for the case _ready._ “I also have noted his increased deflection of emotional and contextual exchanges between us. At the very least he indulges my most base requests, but he has indeed minimized touch and emotional requests towards me. I had thought it perhaps a... negative side effect of... what... happened...” 

There’s some perverse comfort in watching the lump form in her throat, the odd comfort of knowing that even Rose can’t bring herself to say what happened. She quickly manages to skirt around the mention of it, continuing,  “I was under the impression he was avoiding touch due to unwanted emotional transfers, due to everyone’s state of mind. I did not formulate that he might have been minimizing his emotional ties to us, in an effort to starve himself.”

He compares the fury in her voice to velvet, knowing that emotion elegantly slips into her voice. Letting her fury wash over him he can let go of his own panic and anger, and he allows for his thoughts to be spoken,  “What do you purpose we do about the situation?”

“Nothing, quite yet.” She responds smoothly, the velvet fury still wound tightly amongst her words. The scowl on his face is probably instantly visible without his sunglasses, since his eyes are more emotive than his mouth. Sighing, Rose murmurs,  “We aren’t entirely certain that he is starving himself, without the knowledge of his wall’s status. He could be distancing himself because he’s still suffering from... from the loss.”

She sputters softly, wincing as she mutters something to herself. Eventually, she continues,  “He may be, out of interest for our well being, preventing his emotions from being transferred to us. He may feel... as if he shouldn’t be still mourning, regretful that he hasn’t moved on as swiftly as we have. He may not wish to discomfort us more, and has sunken into depression with everything that’s been occurring. So his wall may be suffering, but starvation isn’t likely at this junction unless he’s actually taken it down.”

Smoothing her skirt down, she leans out of her chair slightly, “Dave, confronting him about this matter needs to be put on hold, until we are ascertain that Dirk is starving himself. He may be... better in the weeks that follow. Either way, his mental state will probably lend towards running away from us, if we attempt to discuss it, no matter if the problem is indeed what you fear, or what I suggest, he will appose us either way.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, Rose.” Dave finds himself muttering in a mix of terror and irritation. He knows Dirk, they’re tight knit and stupidly aware of each other’s issues. All too well he knows the troubles of his younger brother, since he shares similar issues with... with being helped.

“... can we plan ahead?” He inquires, with a vague hope that he _is_ just being overprotective and over-thinking everything. After a moment Rose nods, her eyes glancing backwards towards a curtain that covers one of her walls.  “I would propose, if he was starving himself... that we perhaps entice him to rebuild his wall.”

Glancing back towards what Rose’s pointed stare was focused on, Dave let his face crunch into one of slight intrigue.  “... what, you mean, like, try to ensnare him with our walls?” As Rose tends to treat her wall like a collection of the greatest mysteries of mankind, and tends to protect it with a fierceness, he... he can’t quite see his sister letting anyone near it ... let alone _giving a piece of it away._  

She nods thoughtfully at him, owlishly blinking her lilac eyes at him. “ We remove any key marks from our wall. We attempt to get him to take up anything that interests him. Something to rebuild his life with. Obviously...” Shyly, she glances down,  “My own wall is quite small and tailored snuggly towards my needs. I don’t factiously tack up just _anyone_ on my wall.”

Dave bites his bottom lip, nodding,  “My wall, before yours then.” 

Her shy gaze relaxes back upon him,  “Yes, that would be preferable. I apologize, if I sound rude. Your wall is a sprawl, compared to my own, and I... I think your sensibilities would be less offended than my own in sharing; your wall with Dirk.”

With a soft sigh, he nods, “Yeah, it’s easy enough to take my _don’t fucking touch_ marks off the wall and let him sort through all the ‘factious’ _we met at that one party and they were pretty cool_ marks I’ve got sprawled on the wall.” It’s slightly amusing to insult himself in this way, to please the cruel irony gods. Rose softly pushes at his left leg, rolling her eyes.

“There’s the plan then, attempt to carefully seduce Dirk with the fragmented aromas of your wall, so that he remakes his wall, and starts eating properly. Mother will be very displeased if we let him waste away. We shall wait an undetermined period of time to see if he stops acting strangely, and then proceed with this plan if deemed necessary.”

Dave lets out a slight snort, offering his weary acceptance.

Straightening slightly, he places his sunglasses back onto the bridge of his nose. Struggling to keep from sighing, he denotes,  “Alright. Thanks for the feelings jam. I’ll grab a appointment card on the way out.” The statement is made with a implied notice that the topic is likely to come up again, if worse comes to worse. Rose simply nods at him, a wry sigh escaping her lips.

For his sake, he notes that she has to be doing it for his sake, she takes the joke further.

“Of course, David. Remember, wednesdays are generally booked full, so shoot for a friday.”

He slips away from his uncomfortably swank chair and nods, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket. 

 

 

The room will find him returning uncomfortably soon. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :B can you tell I have no idea what I’m doing, despite knowing where I’m going? anyway, here’s a strange alternate universe dedicated to supernatural occurrences, demons, cherubs, tricksters, hunters, halloween-town, maybe, soporifics, monsters, emotional tirades, and awkward displays of homoerotica conserning a sugar-incubus with friendship problems and his sudden awkward and gangly gentleman friend who he wishes to be more than just a friend.
> 
> did you get all that? ... let me debug that mess of text for ya’.
> 
> welcome to the sugarcoated universe, and it’s first installment
> 
> candy crush
> 
> where tricksters are a very special kind of demon  
> and dirk strider is kind of tired of his sad little life of false friendships  
> and passive-aggressive manipulative mind-games  
> so he just kind of gives the fuck up.
> 
> there’s also jake english,  
> part of a family of demon hunting, monster wrangling, supernatural adventurers...  
> who’s... content to live in abstinence from these things  
> trying to get his archaeology degree and live the normal university life.
> 
> everything would just go against the plans they’d both set for themselves, however.
> 
>  
> 
> ah, not my first time in the ballpark, but really my first attempted long-fic for a fandom in a while. so uhm, yeah, I'd appreciate your feedbacks, and your likes, and your comments, and anything else you care to offer yeah
> 
> they'd make my day
> 
> plus you know
> 
> they'd help me sort out whether or not I should keep writing this  
> or if I should move on to other projects....
> 
> all the irons in the fire
> 
> B] thanks for reading


	2. postage rate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _You wouldn’t believe the issues that come up with feeding on friendship, though, if you give the changelings a chance to live amongst ponykind, you’d definitely find this out for yourself._  
> 
> 
>   
> ... I told you he wasn’t quite in his right mind, didn’t I? and, so candy crush begins it’s true focus, riddling out insane amounts of headcannon involving ponies. so, if you don’t understand, s’ okay. sugarcoated is just like that sometimes, I promise it’ll make sense in a few years.
> 
> ... everything is important, let no detail escape your eye, I do declare...  
>  of course I’m mostly joking  
> anyway, let’s see how long it takes everything to go from bad to worse.

 

 

 

 

 

two - postage rate

There was a dilemma playing through Dirk’s brain.

While he _knew_ that turning up the volume would assist in blocking out any mental thoughts conserning the gnawing pain he was currently wracked with, allowing him to busy his thoughts with the duet between a pair of royals conserning the fate of a wedding; he also knew that it would draw in his family members to inform him that he was _being ridiculous with the ponies._

He struggled for a moment with the idea of having Rose or Dave wander into the living room to comment on the ridiculousness. Rose would likely start waxing physiological about the state of the princess, happily involving herself in a verbal spar with him. Dave would either smack him upside the head with headphones as a warning, or interject beat-boxing into the song on a whim.

None of these was a particularly favorable outcome, though if Rose came along, he might indulge in a conversation of deep emotional and psychological conveyance concerning ponykind. It’d take his mind off the clawing hunger. It would keep his eyes from fluttering and struggling to focus on the alicorn on screen.

He decides to turn the blasted television up, sinking into the couch with a noncommittal mumble.

The episode on screen is actually a lovely little gem, the crowning achievement of season two, and his personal favorite. Mainly because it encompasses a moral inquiry towards _something_ he finds incredibly relatable to his own life _._ Which is the moral ambiguity concerning being a _friendship and love_ eating _demoness_ who wants to take over a kingdom of thinking creatures so her empire can be _well-fed_ and _happy_ for eternity.

_Bluh,_ well, he’d probably generalize it down to _the moral ambiguity concerning demons that eat friendship and love._

Of course being a child’s television series, the moral ambiguity isn’t really _ambiguous_ , it’s pretty plain that the queen is meant to be a villain. That what she’s doing isn’t morally right, since it condones brainwashing and slavery. That even though she’s trying to keep her hive from starving, it’s not quite... condonable that she’d want to turn all the ponies of equestria into lovestruck slaves.

He can argue in his feeble little mind that the story is actually an _allegory_ concerning his _own_ society. That morals are indeed important, and what their kind _might have been_ , if their queen was like the changelings' ruler was shown within these episodes.

Instead, tricksters had integrated into society, simple and easily, with minimal resistance... after all, hardly anyone believed in monsters. They went about the people with a more subtle sort of trickery, being less _bodysnatchers_ in their level of creepiness, and more like people that just... never truly existed. Hell, that was probably how Chrysalis should of done it.

Unless changelings could only morph into preexisting ponies.  _Admittedly_ , Dirk thought to himself,  _If I had to go around using someone else’s identity I suppose that would make everything incredibly inconvenient._

Metaphorical and psychological introspective are doing wonders for his insides, he considers, refocusing on the action on the screen, watching as a purple unicorn struggles against a minecart in an effort to move it. Twilight, _no_ , you’re a _nerd_ , use some magic, you don’t have enough muscle for that.

The story moves forward, swoosh, shit, they aren’t going to make it on time. Princess’ beau is gonna marry the fake Cadence Mi’Amore Auditore, and the prince is going to be so lovedrunk... bad things are going to happen.

Dirk does his best to recall the story on his own, idly enjoying the colors in his blurred vision, as his mind is hazily drawn towards the voice of Princess Celestia. _Hell_ , he could write a friendship report or two, when it came to changelings. (If he jokingly considered tricksters a universal parallel to the demon horses, sure.)

It would go something like...

 

_Dear Princess Celestia,_

_You wouldn’t believe the issues that come up with feeding on friendship, though, if you give the changelings a chance to live amongst ponykind, you’d definitely find this out for yourself. Friendship is stupidly complicated when you’re a near immortal demon who’s sustenance revolves around the relationships you keep._

_For me, this is due more so to being an emotional fuck-up who questions the touchier moral aspects of relationships that are formed on the basis of need rather than desire, than it is due to my being a hungry monster. I find myself terrified and confused on a daily basis, due to probably thinking too deeply on how my existence revolves around the magic of friendship, and the foundries of falsities based on a mask._

_On one hand, I don’t find the thought of nonexistence particularly pleasant._

_On the other hand, I have issue with having to use others to support myself, a moral and emotional distress stemming from the idea this is how I’m supposed to live life. Trying to live outside the norms of my culture is ... fearsomely isolating, a pointedly starved existence._

_..._

_I would like to say that everything is kind of complicated and terrifying, all in all._

_Please advise on the near-immortality bit, and maybe forward this letter to your friendship expert. Fuck, maybe she can help me riddle me out the mysteries of the universe._

 

Signed with a nervous flourish, Dirk Strider.

It was less ironic than he supposed it _could_ be, in fact, it was frighteningly honest. Not to mention that cursing in front of a princess was probably something that even in his own societal norms was probably frowned upon. Oh, dear, was his brain really riddling over the social norms conserning speaking to royalty?

Well, it could of been doing worse things, like groaning about how it was starving and Dirk was a horrible festering moron who needed to _stop being so stupid!_ or something.

So, to elaborate on the situation, Dirk was belligerently engaged in a mental war with himself, desperate to distract himself with a colorful collection of equestrian folly. He was entrenched in a marathon of my little pony, busying his brain with anecdotes about life, physiological and physiological introspective conserning ponydom, and dizzying retrospective on his own mentality. This wasn’t even about irony.

It was all to distract from the minor inconvenience that biology would politely denote as hunger pains.

Of course, since human biology and demon biology differed in a way that was pointedly obvious, his _brain_ was screaming in pain instead of his stomach. It was a burning fever note screaming in his brain that denoted,  _fucking hug or kiss someone or I will continue to scream obscenities, how can you stand being this stupid, go remake your wall, good lord, must you continue to be the most moronic, selfish, stubborn, asinine-_

Basically his brain was slowly declining into feverish non-functionality, and would continue to disintegrate, as it desperately attempted to get him to relent to his most basic needs. He wasn’t having any of it. Posterchild for willpower, Dirk Strider.

... no, probably not, the posterchild for willpower probably needed more of a _positive_ story behind him, other than _I’m going to starve myself to death because I’m sick of being a monster, and I’m not going to let anything persuade me otherwise, alright?_

“.... jesus christ, dude.”  
  
... and from the north, descended the foretold event, eldest brother of Strider clan.

There’s a blur of black and red blocking the television, who’s movements declare that he’s displeased about... something. He doesn’t sound pissed-off or irritated, however... The blur that appears to be Dave has the _audacity_ to sit on top of Dirk, as he inquires,  “Can this t.v. get any _louder?”_

Dirk shrugs, rolling his eyes behind his pointed sunglasses. He doesn’t have the energy to supply a snarky retort, so he fumbles with the remote to turn it up a few notches higher. Dave actually snorts slightly at the silent rebuttal, quietly focusing on the television screen.

Usually, Dirk would make an effort to shove the older creature off his stomach, but... he can’t deny that his brain is _quieted_ by the fact he’s got someone _sitting_ on him. The burning is mildly reduced, the aching scream quelled.... quelled because he’s got an ass plush against his stomach, a heavy weight that offers solace. His vision is much less blurred, the sharp features of his brother better coming into view.

... shit.

He can kiss his posterboy status away. Literally, his willpower is shot by the faintest of _brotherly attention._ His brain is more desperate than he seemed to realize if _Dave sitting on top of him_ is literally all it takes to shut it up. Attention from his brother.

If Dave weren’t turning his gaze away from the show and back towards him, he might have pawed at his face while scowling and screaming internally. The elder of the two gravitates for a moment, trying to decide whether the clone-war onscreen or his irritated brother needed his attention. Eventually, he settled on staring at Dirk.

“... how many more episodes do you plan to watch today, anyway?”

“... thirteen.”

Dave drums a beat out against the back of the couch, mouth quirking in odd ways.  “That’s, like, what, five more hours you plan to waste away?”  Shrugging in response, Dirk turns his eyes back on the fight currently onscreen. 

It should be around four-five hours, Dirk supposes. Eventually it dawns on him that Dave is _fishing_ , for something.  “... yeah, why?”  The older monster smirks slightly, shrugging. 

Both of them settle into a comfortable silence, watching the episode come to a close. Dirk mutters something about being unable to cue the next episode due to someone’s ass being plastered against him. Dave snorts and pulls Dirk’s laptop away from the floor, navigating the device with a mutter.

“... the one with _crystal_ ponies is next?”

“... that’s the one.”

“I don’t think I can sit through an hour detailing the lackluster enslavement pansy riot festival, bro.”

“Your loss.”

Dave slides the laptop back on the floor, lightly shrugging as the episode starts loading onscreen. He idles for a few minutes, before separating himself from the couch and his brother.  “Think you could come find me, after the crystal revolution? I could use some help in the attic.”

Dirk can feel his stomach sink, his brain growling something at him.  “Sure.”  It’s not the reply he meant to escape his lips, the word tumbling away from him. Thankfully the panic that stretches across his face goes unnoticed, because Dave is already ambling past the couch, muttering, “Thanks,” as he retreats into the fold of the mansion.

He tries to press himself further into the couch, in an attempt to sink into the fabric and drown. _Augh_ , fine, yeah, more familial interaction. What is willpower, anyway?

... worrying about how the most meager of interaction is prolonging the inevitable is just going to start the screaming up again. Better to let the mental burning ease, until a more appropriate time, like, when locked in a room _away_ from the threat of familial interaction.

 

Letting out a terse sigh, Dirk allows himself to focus back on his show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lackluster enslavement pansy riot festival... I can think of no better Dave way to say, _bro, I don’t want to watch the frightened once-enslaved creatures panic about a fanciful cherub while a festival goes on, the real life parallels bother me._
> 
> sorry if ponies annoy you  
> -shrug- they made for an excellent analogy, though,  
> he could of been watching Madoka and making different analogies and theorems
> 
> but then the chapter would of been called literal genie  
> and I can totally save that for later
> 
> ~~-flails slightly-~~ thanks for your comments, and kudos, guys.
> 
> and so, we begin the life and times of dirk strider
> 
> c:


	3. aria libaria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> _It was a sprawling little debacle, that Dirk felt fell on the scale of ridiculously grandiose libraries right between Professor Higgins‘ personal collection and the library at Hogwarts; a median affair with a sordid atmosphere meant for drinking in information of a certain kind._  
> 
> 
>   
>  Dirk goes off to find his brother to initiate brotherly bonding. Well, no, he just wants to keep pretending that everything is sunshine, puppy-dogs, and rainbows, so gives into doing the thing where he goes hunting for Dave.
> 
> :3 we continue to watch in wait for bad-to-go-to-worse.

 

 

  


three - aria libraria

 

Dave had neglected to inform Dirk that he’d have to go _searching_ for him. Which irritated him slightly, since the household they lived in was a _goddamn_ _mansion_. Though it pained him to realize that he knew _all_ the spots in the house Dave was most likely to be, _he did,_ he _knew_ all the spots in the house Dave was most likely to be in.

His room, the  _other_ living room, the second floor lounge, the west-wing kitchen, or the library.

Dirk still found immense distaste in the idea of having to walk around the massive house in search of his older brother however, so narrowed the list down to the most likely quandaries to search. Dave’s room and the library, which were on opposite sides of the mansion.

His irritation continued to rile him up, when ducking into Dave’s room proved that he wasn’t there. Usually he got it right on his first try. _(Further proof of the deterioration of his brain, he supposed.)_   
  
That left the library, and if he was wrong about that too, he’d be locking himself in his room for a while.

Speaking of the library... It was a sprawling little debacle, that Dirk felt fell on the scale of  _ridiculously_ _grandiose libraries_ right between Professor Higgins‘ personal collection and the library at Hogwarts; a median affair with a sordid atmosphere meant for drinking in information of a certain kind.

The Lalondes had apparently always been big on books, because there was a fuck ton of them inside the house, not only in the library. Rose was an author with a passion for wizards, mother had an interest in crime novels, grandmother was a poet, and Dirk himself enjoyed plays and theoretical bullshit...

Dave’s interest in the library was partially due to the fact that it was a domicile for  _old_ _as sin_ books, rather than the personal collections of the family. Meaning that the library was a very sparsely visited location, unless you were searching for a specific classic, or... research material. The other also enjoyed the nonfiction sections pertaining to  _horror_ , and the fiction on various medical sciences. (Psychology was Rose’s thing, yet Dave was the one  _hoarding_ all the books on it.)

Dave had taken the “back-stacks” up as his personal haunt, a study of everything from medical journals to  psychological tomes to snuff and murder. It was also a fucking mess, a nest of papers, post-it notes, dog-eared books, dead things, nick-nacks, and old snack-wrappers. Then there was the fact that it was also the location of his wall...

Which was one of the reasons Dirk didn’t fancy having to go looking for Dave  _in the library._

He doesn’t want to get near the library, really, since it was the locale where Dave kept his wall.

Yet, there he was, walking through the open entryway and into the cascading shelves of books.

It hardly takes any time at all to waltz through the path that leads to the back edge of the library, Dirk having the path that needs to be walked through the maze-like room more or less memorized due to the frequency he’s had to trek it. 

Thankfully, Dave is indeed roosting in his usual spot, sitting with his feet in his chair. The other boy has his sunglasses tucked into his shirt, two post-it notes stuck to his face, and a mournful glower pointed at a corkboard that is thankfully pointed  _away_ from Dirk’s visual perspective. Dave’s face is a twist of unusual emotion.

Dirk struggles for a moment, glancing back towards the maze of bookshelves as he contemplates walking back out. He has a feeling that Dave assumed that the time Dirk was going to dedicate to crystal ponies was longer than forty-minutes, and perhaps more like an hour-and-a-half. Seeing his brother tangled up in adjusting his wall is... awkward.

Mainly because the space he’s skirting on the edge of smells like a sensual _feast_ , and his brain is muttering obscenities and little pleas that amount to  _walk a little closer, Dirk, my boy._ He’s on the fence about turning around and leaving, since he doesn’t want to well... go anywhere near another trickster’s wall.

A tricksters’ wall was the centermost focus of their powers over others, the marks that represented their quarry given life and place in an ordered fashion. Most tricksters had their own flair for what made a wall, some were more traditional, while others were more artistic in their formulations. There was always a pattern to the placement of marks, the center of each piece was the mark of the trickster who had quarter over the marks within it, while the marks were generally placed in order of significance.

Usually, family members encompassed the closest edges of the piece, lovers and dear friends captured the innermost slots, varying degrees of friendships began to flow away from the centermost positions, everything from  _friend of a friend_ to  _occasional sparing partner_ . 

It was a sacred kind of magic to their kind, really. A wall was something one got rather... protective over. It was art that very few ever were allowed to view, really, due to the possessive nature of tricksters and their marks. 

... he’d liken a trickster’s wall to the crazy walls that time-travelers amassed, to the whiteboard crime-detectives poured over, to the shrines that fanatic fangirls created conserning their favorite bands, to the brutal creations that homicidal maniacs occasionally created conserning their plans.

That was...  _mostly_ what a wall was, in a way.

It was an artistic map of linear information meant for a singular person.  _(demon, whatever.)_

It was a representation of  _everyone_ a trickster was feeding off of, a wall which showed the varying degrees of each relationship he or she held. A large and spacious piece of art that  _metaphysically_ tied other people to the trickster. A large web of dark magic made up of art, symbols, and often ink.

A trickster could only go so long without relationships to sustain them.

Which was part of the reason why he was contemplating backpedaling away from the corkboard and his brother as fast as possible. For one, his mental stability would probably break open if he got any closer to Dave’s shrine, because he himself wasn’t upkeeping a wall.

The magic contained in the wall would call to him like a siren, keen on getting him to take a peek. The other part of the reason he left a large distance between himself and the wall, was because it  _was_ Dave’s, after all. It was considered...

Well, there were certain  _taboos_ concerning this sort of thing.

You weren’t really supposed to gaze upon the marks of another trickster, unless you had their direct permission to do so. There were a dozen other notes about  _don’t touch_ ,  _don’t inhale_ , and  _don’t judge_ , amongst the decorum for viewing. Tricksters were possessive of their marks, not to mention downright touchy about a tirade of other things.

Having known Dave for the majority of his life, he could say that the other wasn’t beyond  _strifing_ over so much as a joking glance at the collection of post-it notes. The guy was extremely keen on keeping the low-down on his marks. So, there was a certain weariness he held when approaching.

The rest of his family had  _decorum_ for their walls, at least.

Rose had a knocking policy, in which she determined if she wanted to cover up her wall or leave it, then let you in. Roxy didn’t  _care_ who viewed her wall, mostly because her wall was extremely  _different_ from most walls. Their mother wouldn’t of let them so much look at her wall, soon as she’d shoot them, but they occasionally saw her carrying around one of the glasses from her collection, since she enjoyed drinking so readily.

Dirk also didn’t want to get too close, because  _hell,_ he could smell it already from where he stood. It was torment in itself, wandering with a hungry mind in proximity to another man’s rations. He scolded himself as he nervously tried to get his brother’s attention.

“... hey, Dave.”

His voice was quiet, a mental roughness requiring him to strain out the words. 

Dave made a face at his wall, tugging another post-it away from it and scowling. He didn’t seem to be ignoring the other, just extremely caught up in whatever he was doing. The goddess of magic was as fickle as the goddess irony at times.

“Dave.” There, that was a little louder and more irritated sounding,  “An hour is not ample time to rearrange your wall.”  ... better. A clear mix between cynical and uncaring, but it goes unnoticed, the other is too busy frowning at his wall.

“... you’re being such a dick. Can you hear me now? Now? Okay. Okay, no. I’m right... I'm literally a couple feet away from you, I’ve been standing here for five minutes, you heartless boy, you don’t ask to meet a girl then ignore her when she shows up-” It takes a few more lines of nonsensical wounded damsel lines before he even _notices_.

His head flies up, and he smacks his hands against his face to cover up the post-it-notes as he turns his head towards Dirk.  “... shit, I thought you’d blow me off for another hour at least.” At least he sounds slightly apologetic. Dirk gives a dramatic sigh, still on the tangent involving a scorned damsel,  “I’m wounded, that you thought I’d be late. You _really_ think my sense of time and responsibility is so skewed?”

Dave waves at him, carefully tugging the post-it notes away from his face and tucking them away somewhere.  “No, I just figured you’d take another hour to work out the feels you have for Fluttershy before you came looking for me. Rest assured, dude, your maiden sensibility is still in tact within my mind, I simply altered the time to one in which I assumed you’d arrive.”

“He says  _ironically_ , as he thinks back on how he had trouble tearing his gaze from Applejack-”

“...”

The banter cools as Dave continues to fiddle with the post-its on the corkboard, shrugging his shoulders. After a moment, he glances over toward Dirk again.  “... you’ve got clearance, you know.” A clear,  _I’m going to change it anyway, and you’ve seen what I’ve on on here anyway,_ sort of statement that also offers,  _You don’t have to stand eight feet away from me, Dirk._

Gritting his teeth, but carefully not to let the action transfer to his face, Dirk wanders a touch closer. His willpower is a thin hair away from cracking, but he manages. The magic is a little more... raw that need be, everything smells like a wander through the New Jersey Boardwalk’s food section (exceedingly Dave-ish, actually). Dirk clamps down on the burning sensation that riles up, and sort of just stands there.

So long as he keeps the irritation and panic away from his face, Dirk’s certain Dave won’t notice his awkward motions. The process of forcing a facade on his face and through his bones is harder, with the lack of mental acuity he usually uses to keep an unemotional front. The strain tugs at his mind, like a rubber-band stretched too far and desperately fighting to snap backwards.

Eventually the tension gets him to spit out a few words,  “So, what about the attic needs me involved with it to assist you?”

It takes Dave a moment to reply, still idling with a look of concentration on his work,  “Rose said there were some vinyls up top I missed that she noticed when she went spelunking for antique curios for her new sweetheart. Thought I’d enlist your help in finding them.” Dirk is quick to hide the down quirk of his lips, walking past Dave to focus on his desk.

“I see.”

He forcefully trains his eye on a folder labeled  _New England - May 1930_ ; flicking the file open he’s met by a ragged looking photocopy of something detailing breast cancer and blood urine in the nineteen-thirties. ... staring at it and letting his brain confuse itself over  _why_ Dave would have it on his desk lets him push other thoughts away.

There’s not a shmorgus-board of delightful smells emanating from right behind him,  _noooooo_ , shoot, why the fuck would you even suggest that? There’s  _only_ a file folder on terrifying subjects, that’s all. The idea of turning around and letting the magic remind him of what he’s missing is ridiculous. He’s got a good bit of damn sense left in him.

“You’re down for attic diving then?”

“... yeah, I guess.”

Dave snorts slightly at his response, and shifts slightly in his chair. The motion startles Dirk, who soon realizes that the other is watching him fiddle with the folder.  “It’s a cold and clinical read. You’d probably prefer the folder to the right.”  His brother muses in a sultry little tone. Dirk shrugs and opens another folder lying precariously on the desk.

It slips slightly, and a cascade of selfies pile onto the desk.... well, what _appeared_ to be horrible phone photos, they’re all actually quality shots of some goofy kid with big teeth and ridiculous hair. Dave jolts slightly,  “... the one on the _right_.” He reiterates, and Dirk snorts slightly. ... hmn, well, maybe that was the folder on the _left_.

He can’t help checking out some of the pictures, busying his mind with trying to figure out if he’s met this particular fellow before. Dave, while overtly protective of his wall, doesn’t mind dragging his marks around the mansion to play playstation and boggle at the ancient domicile. 

“... does that one has leaves in the foreground?”

“...”

“... you’re such a stalker.”

“...”

“... wait, isn’t this the non-stripper who tried to throw salt at us to see if we’d melt?”

“... might of been.”

“Cute-”

“ _Mine_.” There is a underlying growl somewhere in there, and Dave’s voice is nothing but an angry reverb against his lips. Dirk quirks an eyebrow at the sheer force behind the statement, and turns his gaze back the other, who has a hand plastered to his mouth, and a burning blush plastered against his cheeks. He splurges on words, tripping for a moment,  “Fuck, jesus, _heredity,_ fuck. Damn, okay, yeah, _mine_ -”

After a moment of uneasy amusement, Dirk relents with an,  “Okay, yeah, no, I was joking, he’s not really doing it for me-”

Dave starts scrawling something on a post-it note and slaps it against his brother’s arm with a furious huff.

There’s a nice little line of red text that reads

little guy is mine anyway

so shut the fuck up bro 

cause I love you 

and I would prefer not 

to beat you senseless 

with the hilt of my sword 

Dirk smiles slightly at this, carefully stepping back,  “You’d get your hands bloody over this guy, and you’ve not introduced the family? The lady doth protest too much, I think.”

“Give a trickster a  _heart attack;_ call his favorite mark  _cute_ and then quote Shakespeare like a douche-”

“I am not bound to please thee-”

“... god, really?”

“When I think, I must speak.”

“... and on he goes. How many of these do you have?”

“The best is yet to come.”

“... seriously, that shit is Shakespeare?”

“Words, words, words.” He eventually mumbled,  “That is all they are to me. The rest, is silence.”

“Douchenozzle. Spewing forth the great poet like it ain’t no thing...”

“I would challenge you to a battle of wits, but I can see you’re unarmed, dear brother.” He spoke this with brevity, as well as a sense of finality. He then gave a dizzy little shrug, glad that his own glasses were still planted firmly on his face. 

There was a comfort in the not-really-banter, and he felt... slightly more comfortable invading the shrine of his brother. Also, the comfort in spewing Shakespeare in an awkward, rambled set of motions assisted in quelling his terse motions. Dirk did his best not to jump when Dave lightly punched his arm and scoffed at him.

“Unarmed my ass. I’m a little preoccupied with thoughts unsuited for battle, Mercutio.”

“So you are, Romeo.”

The younger watched the elder for a moment, as the blonde went back to squinting at his board and making faces at it. Dirk avoided looking directly at it, busying his gaze with either his brother or the desk once more. It was easier, by a... meager amount.

It took a lot of focus to keep his mind clear, focusing on the dead animals, the awkward photo collection he wasn’t meant to see, the various books crowding the desk, the blond ruffle of his brother’s hair. It was thrown off by candy, fried foods, and robust dishes trying to taunt his senses. Yeah, fuck, no library should smell like coney island.

Dirk found himself twitching, and eventually he decided that he was not pleased with waiting on the boardwalk. He let his brain choose his words, straining to keep himself in check,  “... Dave, are we going attic exploring, or should I let you find me in an hour?”

The bristling tone came out more... irritated off than he probably meant it too.

He was sort of tired of standing in the middle of the boardwalk waiting to go on the roller-coasters, while his brother ignored him and sorted through  _cotton fucking candy_ like a demented rich child who was fussing over which flavor he wanted.

His willpower was doing  _stupid_ shit, and he needed to distance himself from the  _issue_ .

Dave made a noncommittal noise, his lips pursing for a moment.

Dirk was about to throw up his arms and walk out of the library, shouting differing forms of  _rude._ Which would have been made up of a dozen different insults and phrases, and perhaps some japanese tacked in there to declare Dave a dishonorable samurai who hadn’t the tact to wield his family name. Or quotes from 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Then, that might of been in bad-taste, very, very bad taste. Repeating  _Dave, stop. Stop, will you?_ was someone else’s thing. Poor taste, was it to reference Hal at this point in time. 

Before he could swing his arms up and escape the library, Dave pushed his chair back. The elder carefully turned and placed a handful of post-it notes onto his desk, mumbling something about lamination and new arrivals.  “Attic.”  He noted, with a nod.

Dirk amicably attempted to calm himself down, reminding himself that Dave wasn’t  _purposefully_ antagonizing him. Hell, he was... pretty sure he’d done a good job covering up the fact he wasn’t eating properly, so Dave couldn’t... know what he was doing. 

He just couldn’t.

Dirk doesn’t dare think he might  _know_ ,  _might_ have an inkling.

Then every minor ounce of self-control he had would probably go out the window, and he and Dave would be in a tangled twist up against a bookshelf as they shouted themselves  _silly_ over the issue.

_You’re pressuring me to do something I can no longer stand doing._

_You’re not eating, which is something you have to do to survive! Don’t be stupid!_

_I understand the consequences of my actions-_

Dirk shook the imagined conversation away, biting down on the acidic words. Dave couldn’t of known. He remains his usual antagonistic, clearly brotherly, idiotic self, while Dirk looks on and accidentally projects things on top of that which don’t really exist.  _He doesn’t know._

Dave moves away from his desk, nodding towards the maze of bookshelves, and Dirk follows along, brain numbly fighting against him. He doesn’t throw back a glance at the damned thing he doesn’t want to lay eyes on. He doesn’t, and Dave doesn’t say anything about it.

 

They begin to head for the attic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m at a loss on how to write author notes  
> fuck
> 
> anyway, yeah, :B herein Dirk entails one of the weirder aspects to a Trickster’s existence, a crazy wall of metaphorical ties to other people. (what does a wall truly do beyond being a magical map of relationships that smells like a street filled with restaurants? not telling. the xenobiology behind it all is fun, though.)
> 
> would it be xenobiology for demons?
> 
> or like... dubious zoology?
> 
> why do I feel like I need a word for the biological study of demons?
> 
> would the scientific community treat demons as humans or animals, due to their mixed animalistic imperatives, humanity, general eating of emotions, and other such weirdness? ... I’m at a loss. what do they call biology for vampires and werewolves? ... or monsters in general?
> 
> I think someone once used xenobiology to happily describe the biology of mermaids  
> in this one pepsicola fic I will forever recommend
> 
> so most likely, it’s xenobiology, but,
> 
> I am still curious and rambling however  
> so do you guys think it would be zoology or xenology? 
> 
> ... I will be grateful for anyone who indulges me and my whimsy, as I go on to writing the next chapter
> 
> thanks for your comments and kudos, <3 I’m glad to see more of them~


	4. brotherly discordance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> _“Roof,” Dave spits the word like a meaningful curse, and for all it’s worth, Dirk only hears the death sentence behind it._   
> 
> 
>   
>  the strider clan has a small dispute, in the only way they know how: roof-born debacles. feeling jams might also occur, though the sort that are born out of desperation and anger bread forth from pained waiting. :B the plot gets a rolling’!

 

 

 

four - brotherly discordance

 

They spend two hours in the attic subsequently goofing off in their quest to find a box of old and probably shitty records which they never manage to actually find, despite turning the attic upside down, before they both become increasingly bored and unwilling to keep searching. Dave declares that they’ll just have to try at another venture within the week, when neither has anything to do. Which _irks_ Dirk, ... if you’ll pardon the rhyme.

It lends towards his darker thoughts, the frustrated notion that perhaps the universe has no plans to let him give up. That it’ll throw sibling after sibling interaction at him, and watch his willpower buckle under a pleading crimson gaze or a politely worded request. That any and all attempts he puts into one of the very few ways _death_ occurs for his stupid species is going to be _negated_ , because the universe is forcing him into close quarters with his family.

... also, because, you know, the universe is a fickle thing that cares too much.

He let that thought run through his mind with wild abandon, a chuckle offered towards the irony involved with the statement. Honestly, it was sort of a funny little thought. It was one of those rare sentences that would probably insult every teenager in a ten-mile radius.

_Kid, the universe is a fickle thing that cares too fucking much!_

So, instead of doing the _smart_ thing and making himself a scarcity within the house for a week, or escaping to parts unknown, Dirk does the blitheringly moronic thing, and _attempts_ to avoid his family while still brooding about the mansion. 

He manages a good two days, four hours, and thirteen minutes, before Dave catches him in the kitchen, boiling water and watching after the last container of instant ramen, which is dubious and expired and needs to be fucking eaten already. Again, he finds himself in the attic, eating ramen and listening to Dave prattle on about absolutely nothing as he shuffles through antiques and boxes of ancient-lalonde-belongings, and he eventually joins his brother in the bullshit ramble for magical old-people music.

When it’s all said and done, there still aren’t any records to be found, and Dirk feels a twinge suspicious. The peel of terror that instigates from the thought that Dave is making excuses to spend time with him, is more than enough to make Dirk ignore the line of thought entirely. Especially when the line of thought is boiled down to a panicked mental declaration of: _He knows!_

He goes back to actively avoiding his family, reclusively shutting himself up in his room for days on end. 

Honestly, if he were made of stronger stuff, maybe... he could of cut himself off from his family entirely.

... maybe, it all comes down to being afraid to truly die. So, dancing inbetween being unwilling to live, yet being too afraid to step off the edge and forget it all, that’s all that he’ll ever be able to do. To live without truly living. Honestly, it hurts to think about.

It’s not even a willing or even sane admittance.

For any sentient being, he supposes, the question of suicide is generally counteracted by some hardcoded _rule_ bred by society or familial circumstance, that denotes _no, fuck, no, you can’t do that._ For some it might be the expectations of others: _what will they think if I go through with it_ , and others, further despair and unwillingness, _I’m not strong enough to go through what happens if I fail even this._

Dirk supposed his rule, or denoted _reason I can’t jump off the roof_ , was the twisting fear of nonexistence.

That was probably a larger part of the hardcoded universal agreement against death within all higher thinking creatures. Firstly the expectations of those around you, _knowing there was someone who’d mourn and ask why_ , then the knowledge that death means goodbye, and finally, not knowing what comes after.

Not that jumping off the roof would _kill him._

There were certain perks to being a candy goblin, which included: _the cartoonish ability to suffer abuse not readily survivable by normal means._ Jumping off the roof would make his bones ache for a while... or if he landed on his face, he would need to regrow teeth. He wasn’t going to put up with Dave asking if he’d been fighting with the stairs again.

That would not be happening.

Sure, he bruised, he _bled_ , he had _organs_ and _bones_ , but that was all part of the illusion. In his current, lackluster, underfed state, he was still about as human as a _penguin_ was. That was to say, he was a living organism... he had a _heart_ , but the rest of him was an alien being.

... he was pretty sure he was considered living.

Tricksters were born, after all, bred and _born_ , hot-blooded creatures that partook in the living world’s ecosystem. They weren’t like cherubs, sprung from hate and love, doomed to the court or to paragon, or like fiends, summoned from the fiery pits of the underworld every forth night some wily teenager made a sacrificial deal. Dead-as-a-door-nail-zombie, thankfully, he was not. 

His steady stream of conscience thought was interrupted by the subtle click of a closing door.

Dirk couldn’t help but stop in his tracks, focusing on the world around him. The first thing that hit him was that person he’d been avoiding for a current total of... hmn, five days now, was exiting _his_ room. Fuck, fuck, fuck.  _“Dave.”_ He can’t help but let this tumble past his lips, a twist of bubbling fear and anger fusing quickly through his veins.

Going to grab Lil’ Cal and leaving his room unlocked for the first time in quite some time and giving up mid-walk cycle to the living room had, perhaps, not been the wisest of decisions.

If he had actually had his wall up, he’d of been furious. Pissed off and ready to tear Dave’s throat out. He was simply _freaked_ the fuck out, because it wasn’t up and Dave was hovering at the doorway. 

Dave, to his credit, doesn’t look like a deer caught in the headlights, like Dirk has a feeling he himself does. The older monster tersely sighs, pulling his shades off his face.  “...” His eyes are sharp daggers, crimson stained. Dirk stiffens when a very dirty look is thrown his way.

_“Roof,”_ Dave spits the word like a meaningful curse, and for all it’s worth, Dirk only hears the death sentence behind it. Tensing up, Dirk can’t help but glance towards the hallway that leads _away_ from his room, but Dave flashsteps to encompass that space.  _“Now,_ ” He needles, gesturing forward before crossing his arms.

The inkling that threatens the idea that Dave is all too aware of what’s going on is turning into more of a sinking sort of certainty that _aware_ might have been putting it lightly. He knew _now_ , of course.The question is now, how long has he _known_ , but been holding back on a confrontation? 

Around him, the world is crashing, the fragile lie brought to its knees. Dirk runs a hand through his hair, avoiding the terse look being thrown his way. The pooling twist of guilt, fear, and panic knots up his insides, making him feel worse than usual. With a vague notion of surrender, he turns away from Dave, numbly following the route that leads to the roof-access. 

Usually, when the roof is involved, there’s ferocity and fire humming underneath his skin. All he can feel as he scrambles down the hall, and up the stairwell that leads to the roof is a numbing sense of terror. There’s not any righteous anger to be had, nor his usual honest fighting spirit.

He’s cold and afraid, unable to muster up any anger at all.

When one announced to the other, _roof_ , in any tone of voice, it was a declaration of war. Well, perhaps that was a bit of hyperbole, it was more like the other was... well.  The announcer was insisting that he felt _insulted_ or _angry_ about something that the other had done, and wanted a chance to let his emotions bleed out in formulated aggression. It was both a way to speak about issues, as well as beat the shit out of one another.

So... it was sort of some bullshit honor battle between brothers.

It was mostly a thing the ‘Strider’ half of the family partook in, even the old man (when they’d barely been able to wield swords or swing fists, just little tykes) had accepted this single word as a serious inclination of _we need to talk._ Twas a heavy little word.

_Roof._

Sometimes the declaration amounted to,  _I’m mad as a hatter, can we fight?_ Or,  _I need to beat the shit out of something that’ll fight back, someone’s dead, someone’s left me, excetra, excetra._ Dirk numbly wonders if this is the _first_ time the roof has been used for:  _You have crossed a thousand different lines by refusing to be what you are._

Hmn,  _you are a Strider, Striders do not do this, get up and fight._ Yeah, that sounded about right.

Even these somewhat comical admittances don’t really soothe the thundering panic rolling through Dirk. They’ve probably just agitated his heart and further tensed his muscles in response, though his ridged motions have allowed him to reach the pinnacle of the stairs without trouble. He pushes the door open, ignoring the twist of panic that shoots through him at the feel of Dave at his backside.

He knows the space he’s walking into by heart, the well-maintained space that’s been used for centuries to view fireworks every fourth of july, the rocky concrete underfoot, the wrack of swords idly waiting for the duo against the glass wall that’s the dome of the observatory, the thin paths to either side of the roof... 

Admittedly, he’s going through the motions. His brain is telling his legs to start shuffling over to the weaponry before it can register that the person occupying the space behind him isn’t _right there_ anymore. It doesn’t register until long after he should of started worrying and started rationalizing when and where he could expect his brother to be trying to dig a sword into him.

So, the moment he sees Dave flashstep in front of him, and feels the other roughly shove him to the ground _away_ from the swords, is the moment his brain starts screeching warnings to the degree of,  _fuck, gah, sword, fuck, dirk, dirkkk, move your ass,_ a fraction too late.

He’s a twinge surprised when Dave doesn’t start gunning for the swords, and his mind ventures a hazardous guess that fisticuffs are to be the reigning strife application. Dave wants _words_ punctuated by _righteous fury_ , not righteous fury echoing through the clatter of swords. Dirk grits his teeth, and glances towards the swords.

Hell, he’d rather not have words.

Before he can scramble back onto his feet, Dave quite literally launches himself towards Dirk, a growl reverberating through the air.  The noise makes Dirk flinch, and he’s dragged backwards by the velocity of another body crashing into his. His mind is busy cataloging the raw pain shooting through his arms as they scrape against the roof’s shitty stone-and-cement cobbled topside, as well as the unpleasant trill of Dave audibly hissing out words that belonged in the underworld. 

_[ Have you lost the way, black sheep, or have you lost your mind?! Ringlords, preserve what little of mine brother is left! You do unbend your noble strength, to abandon the ways of our kin. To unbind a wall, and leave one’s mind to rot within? Even a moment of travesty does not profess a need for this! ]_

Dirk couldn’t find words to respond to this breathy chant of satanic fury, decidedly panicked over the fact his brother was so angry he wasn’t processing _english._ Or, you know, he was so pissed off, he had gone straight for:  _I am your worst nightmare and you are done fucking around with me, where’s the apple juice?_

His silence, and lack of movement, (where the hell was his fighting spirit? oh, yeah, it’d deflated and left him to squirm under the heavy form of his brother), led Dave to grapple with his shoulders and shake him. 

_[ Can you not hear, my brother? Did you go deaf, and expect me to go blind? ]_

Dirk blinks, and Dave continues to needle,  “When?”

_[ When did you break your web, weaver? How long have you allowed madness to dwell in your heart? ]_

Dirk winced and tried to bring words to rise from his throat, common, english, spanish, japanese, _fuck,_ anything, _any_ language that he could use to tell Dave to kindly fuck off. He couldn’t get anything past his lips, a few odd noises tumbling forth, but nothing substantial enough to be a clear:  _Get the fuck off me._ There was a blockage of stark-cold terror keeping words from rising out of his throat, an iceberg that had sunken them into the sea.

Dirk moved to push Dave away, but the older monster just battered his scraped up arms away, leaning in closer. A wave of something bordering on nausea hit him, and he squirmed and glowered underneath his sunglasses. What _was_ that?

He... he felt... oh, well, shit. 

He could feel the boiling point of desperate rage pushing against him, a twist of complicated emotions riling up and working against his skin, trying to sink in and offer him a _fighting chance._ It took him a moment to associate the blur of _upset-disappointed-hurt-infuriated-fight-confusion-hurt-angry_ nonsense to _Dave_.

He desperately needed distance between himself and the other, and his body braced against the thick haze of emotions he could feel working past his skin and sinking into his own conscience. Emotional osmosis, or _empathy_ that was to say, was not directly pleasant, not if it was... a blend of emotions such as the ones his brother was battling against. 

It took a minute to riddle out why he could feel the grab-bag of emotional turmoil that belonged to his brother boiling under his skin, as he wasn’t exactly in the best of shape. Picking up the emotions of another was a being was reserved to skin-to-skin contact, lest a trickster had enough energy to tap into the ability... 

Which was why it should of been obvious that Dave had a hand on him, or hands on him.

... Dirk’s brain had been busy, alright?

It’d been very busy trying to work the ton of ice lodged in his throat out, so he could tell Dave to fuck off.

The block was radically eradicated when he felt nails digging into his wrists, fingers poised to bruise while they twisted and pushed. Dave was saying something else, but, honestly, he couldn’t place sounds to letters, too busy listening to the extraneous emotions. Being bilingual meant that occasionally phonetics and pronunciations didn’t seem to connect to one another, meaning that even languages he _knew_ tended to get away from him in moments like these. 

Emotions were a little language all their own. 

Hell, did the ones Dave was shoving under his skin _burn._

_[ hurts ]_

Dave seemed somewhat pacified when Dirk hissed the only thing his brain could handle saying, and his grip faltered. It loosened, but didn’t let up. More syllables slipped past his ears that didn’t find purchase, didn’t make sense. There was just a burning sense of overwhelming panic that _wasn’t_ part of his own twelfth-degree panic,  “Stop _touching_ me _-”_

There we go.

Hands twisting in shirt fabric, panic blurring back to familiar and normal levels.

Dave allows Dirk a moment to collect himself before muttering,  “Okay, one more time.”

He then proceeds to lean back in and growl, in his darkest tone,  _“When?”_

Dirk lets his head lull to the side, tiredly trying to use his pointed glasses to jab at Dave’s face. It’s a weak rebuttal, which is done mostly for the amusement of his battered brain. He takes a long and painful moment to determine what to say. The emotions that still linger from his brother’s touch needle him to say something snarky. 

To verbally accost, when too weak to physically accost.

Part of those emotions are kicking him in the stomach while they still can, reminding him that Dave is biting down just as much panic as he is. That the anger he’s seeing is more likely _terror_ , _panic,_ like he’s looking down and seeing-

“... right after I had to take Hal down. I just... it _all_ came down.” Dirk lets the words tumble away from him, wincing not at the weight of them, but at the harsh and _wounded_ breath of air Dave breaths in. He’s rewarded with a light punch to the gut, and a trembling face-to-chest hug. There’s a frightful lack of insults. 

No shouts of _stupid,_ no howls of anger, no muttering or scowling.

“...” Dirk fumbles for a moment with his feelings and swallows the bile creeping up into his throat.

He finds himself looking down at a frightening visage staring up at him, a usually freckle dusted porcelain face marred with crimson from cheekbones to ears. “... you have to put it back up, bro.” Dave’s voice is gravely, his eyes like dull rusted metal now. There’s no sharpness to them, nor the statement.

A simple, _you have to, bro._

Dirk lets a heavy sigh reverberate through his bones, scrunching up his face and moving his hands to rub at his eyes.  “... I can’t. Just- ” He can hear the noise of protest in Dave’s throat, and so he puts an edge to his voice as he continues,  “I can’t do it anymore. I don’t have a reason. I don’t have a want. Fuck, _It makes me sick_ , to even consider doing it anymore.”

Dave has his hands tangled up in Dirk’s shirt, and he tugs slight and mutters a few choice words as he hides his face. “... bro, that’s... just-” After a moment, he pulls away, sitting up and crossing his arms. Dirk stares impassively at him, awaiting the obvious arguments.

“You really want to do this?”

“... it’s not... it’s a lie, it’s...” Dirk fumbles with his words, sighing.  “I would prefer it, at this junction in time.”

“Hal wouldn’t want it.”

“You don’t know what he would of wanted, Dave.”

“I’m pretty damn sure he wouldn’t want you wasting away.”

“Cal-”

“Dirk-”

“He-”

“The puppet does not get a say in your wellbeing-”

“Dave.”

“No, we’re not letting Cadel anywhere near this conversation. He’s creepy. He does not know best.”

An irritated noise slips away from Dirk’s throat as he says,  “I could ask him, though.”

“We are not asking a felt devil if he thinks it a good idea for you to kill yourself. Or if he knows what Hal would say in the situation. He’ll think it _a grand ole’ idea._ He will hold a vigil, light some candles, draw magic signs and circles in pixie dust, see if he can’t speed the process up. That is not something a friend does, unless they’re fucking around with you-”

“You think pixie dust circles would help?”

“...” Dave’s face goes from _‘you wound me’_ to _‘could you not’_ in a short moment, and he presses his hands to his face. Double-face palm. Dirk lets himself smirk, just a little, for this. 

It’s not a victory, but no, no, it feels nice. 

It feels nice for all of two minutes before he sees something terrifying. 

Dave is trying to _not_ cry.

... this... it... so fucking wrong, the very idea that Dave is _crying_ because of _him_ leaves Dirk with a hole punched into his stomach. Watching Dave paw at his face and shake is .... _it’s so fucking weird._ It isn’t a thing that should be happening.

Dave is the epitome of ironic and stoic. 

Dirk is quick to foist the blame on Dave’s lack of sunglasses.  ... because this is a mix of vague surreal insanity and what-the-fuck-is-happening. It’s _inconceivable._

Dirk shrinks backwards, trying to see if the concrete will further mutilate him. Maybe he can grind himself into a paste and reform when Dave isn’t hovering over him.

“... you are so fucking stupid, I swear, there is nothing _funny_ about this, _I can’t,_ I just... I just cannot,”  Dave’s voice is hedging on hysterical as he histrionically punctuates his rapid phrases with hand gestures. His pitch keens through different cycles, and Dirk wonders if that’s _natural_ , or just... well, Dave having a little panic attack in his own special way.  “I can’t loose you too. I can’t, I can’t, fuck, I can’t watch mom drown again, I can’t... I can’t loose you... We can’t go through that, not again, not right now, hell, not ever again. You’re family, you utter douchenozzle, get your head on straight! You have to put your wall back up, _because for the love of lord english,_ you can’t even-”

There are a numerous amount of things Dirk expects to be interjected here.

You can’t flashstep, you can’t even fight me, you can’t empath without freaking out, you can’t-

“-tell me that I’m _wrong!_ We _shouldn’t_ even be _arguing_ about this!”

Dirk flinches and goes entirely still. He opens his mouth, and promptly closes it, confusedly running the sentence through his mind. He... no, that’s not something arguable. 

Listening to the rebuttal is feeling less and less like an option, since manipulation and desperation are starting to edge into Dave’s frantic speech. Since the other isn’t leaning in like an aggressive dominant predator anymore, or an over-jealous girlfriend, having moved to give Dirk room to breath... Dirk takes this opportunity to reopen strife, carefully restarting the conversation.

_“I can’t._ I can’t rebuild my wall. _”_ He reiterates in a slow, shaken breath, glancing up at Dave.

Dave flounders slightly, “... I _can’t_ watch this all over again, in _reverse_. You don’t even have to put humans up there, if that’s your problem. Just... just us, man. Rose, Roxy, Renae, me-”

“Dave-”

“Dirk, you _can’t_ do this-”

“...”

“... you have to eat. ... jesus, you _have_ to eat. Okay?”  
  
Dirk chooses this moment to slowly prop himself up on his elbows, wincing for a moment at the reminder of the grated skin on his arms, as he sits up. “No. Not really.” With this quickly worded retort, he summons up all his strength and _shoves_ Dave to the side. 

Springing up, he shoots away from the stunned form of his brother, gunning for the edge of the roof. Dave does not sound pleased, from the way he growls, but Dirk is already at the edge contemplating if the car is in the driveway or not. Knowing that it was sort of hard to flashstep when struggling to stand up on the shitty rooftop, and that Dave is having to scramble to his feet, Dirk allows himself a moment of consideration.

_Like that time in Texas, when we jumped for the roof next door and I missed._

With that lighthearted thought whizzing through his mind, he closes his eyes and leaps, just as Dave moves in an attempt to grab him. 

His fall is not graceful. It’s a fumble of still moving limbs and his brain awkwardly and franticly trying to decide the best options for landing. He knows two things: he doesn’t want to land on his face, and that gravity is _not_ working with him right now. 

 

 

 

... fuck. Meeting the cement is _never_ pleasant, no matter how much your cells resemble _rubber_.

His brain is quick to remind him that _in texas, you fell twelve stories and hit someone’s car. This is not comparable to that._ He glances towards the three story building and lets out a bemused little crow of amusement at it.

He’s landed on his back at his left side, (to his odd and faint disappointment, he has landed on his _good_ hand), and everything is a blend of pain, elation, and adrenaline. Breathing is all he cares to do as these things course through his system.

It’s all quickly taken away when the situation comes back to life, accidentally falling and actually jumping off a roof to get away from someone are, two... different things. Wheezing for a moment, Dirk pulls away from the ground, back to cataloging injuries and vaguely wondering if he’s got the energy to repair the damage that’s been done. He’s quick to realize the obvious problems.

_Left arm is not responding to inquires of movement, and is screaming profanities. It’s probably out of junction with the rest of me, needs to be popped back into place. Arms are still looking like a war-story relating to a bicycle accident on a gravel road. Backside and left arm are going to bruise unless I invest in the hours needed to repress them._

As he staggers away from the spot he landed in, he gets to work on reseting his left arm, working through familiar actions, until he can hiss at the flush of pain that comes with popping a bone back into a socket. There’s still intense discomfort, but that would be his nerves singing songs about how _stupid_ that he was. He himself is still thrumming with the adrenaline.

The rest of his injuries will have to wait, or will get to stick around.

He offers one last weary glance towards the roof, wincing at the sight of Dave loitering near the edge, before he starts moving. Without thinking quite straight, he starts moving away from the house, shakily strolling down the driveway. He needs a moment away from the drab green mansion.

He hates to think it, but he knows what must be done.

 

Dirk decides he’ll return, but _only_ for a moment, when it’s least expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... totally not sorry.  
>  not being apologetic. 
> 
> fisticuffs were inevitable  
> -shiftyeyes- as were feeling jams.
> 
> ... this took so long to write  
> and I meant to have it done monday  
> but I was swamped by _IT’S ALMOST SCHOOL TIME_
> 
> oh my stars, kindergardeners, s’ art time
> 
> ... anyway. -shoves this chapter at you guys- the next chapters flowed a little easier  
> I think dave with icecream and rose being rose are just  
> just they were nice to write  
> mhn


	5. paternal instinct

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> _The air was taught, as if someone had strung invisible wires between the spaces in between the two of them, and Rose found it very discerning that everything about her brother screamed that something had gone incredibly wrong._   
> 
> 
>   
>  we hang out around the house without Dirk for a little while, and see how Rose and Dave pick up the paternal slack. (also known as, let’s steal rose’s brain for a little while.)

 

 

five - paternal instinct

 

“I can’t fucking believe you! Oh, my, god! Dirk! _Dirk,_ you- _fuck_ , oh, fuck, fuck-”

There’s a sickening noise that can be heard, even from the window. Rose choses to ignore it, smoothing out the page of the book she’s currently fascinated with. She is well and used to being occasionally accosted by the noises that the roof is often guilty of, quite familiar with the snicker-snack of vorpal blades and the harsh language that drifts through her window.

“You cannot be  _serious!_ Get back here! We are  _not_ done talking about this,  _I will fucking get Rose in on this_ , do not say I didn’t warn you, man, because, because, this, this is-Dirk! Dirk,  _turn your ass around!_ I will fucking ground you into the next century! I’ll fucking reinstate movie night, and I will remove your door from it’s hinges, so  _help me-_ ”

Finally her sharp eyes jump away from the velvet pages of her novel, and she lets the story tumble away from her as she focuses on the loud obscenities being hollered from above. Dave sounded practically... paternal. Which was never a  _good_ thing.

With a terse sigh, Rose carefully thumbs through her book, checking on her progress. 

There are twelve more pages until the end of this particular chapter, and she nods firmly. 

She’ll finish the chapter and then close the book. What’s being shouted from the rooftop is particularly...  _worrying._ All in all, she decides that Dave needs a moment to himself, before she goes to inquire after what just went down.

Her intuition tells her that it has something to do with Dirk.

... and, well, Dave’s shouting lends plenty to that speculation.  
  


\-----------------------------------------------------

  
She drifts through the house, letting her spirit guide her to her brooding brother.

His presence, she discovers, is moping at a kitchen counter, hoodie pulled over his tousled hair, glasses blockading anything he might  _feel_ , and the tail-end of a spoon jutting from the side of his lips. She’s disgruntled to find that he’s dipped into the ice-cream reserves, knowing it a tell-tell sign that... well, shit had hit the fan, and Dave felt he could of handled it better.

Rose shakes her head slightly, before announcing her arrival with a soft murmur, “Hnnn...”

Dave turns slightly on his barstool, gripping at the poor ben and jerry’s container like it’s a lifeline. His grip loosens up when his eyes come to fall on her, and he acknowledges her with a slight nod. She wonders what, exactly, has occurred to make him withdraw so inwardly, even around  _her._

“You know,” She begins with a soft sigh, “I occupy the space  _right_ below where your roof-born debates are held, David...”

The air was taught, as if someone had strung invisible wires in the spaces inbetween the two of them, and Rose found it very discerning that everything about her brother screamed that something had gone incredibly wrong. She wondered for a moment if the tension would lessen if she seated herself at the counter, but quickly pressed the stray thought away.

The tension was palpable, she supposed, a needed element to this encounter. She had never seen Dave this on edge, to be honest.... So, she remained immovable from her spot, watching him stab at his ice-cream with his spoon and shove another spoonful into his mouth. “So, in light of the loud and veritable curses you allowed to drift through my window, I have come to inquire what all the fuss is about.”

Dave let his spoon clatter against the counter and he glowered, a look that not even his glasses could hide, the scrunch of the nose and the tightness of the lips. “-mph off the roof.”

Rose blinks.

She takes another moment, and lets herself try to riddle out whether or not she had just heard correctly. He certainly doesn’t  _look_ like he went off the roof during the strife, but, then, Rose supposes that Dave has enough connections to feasibly heal the damage in a matter of minutes.

“... pardon? You did what?”

Dave makes another face, and Rose softly wishes to herself that he’d remove the shades. Certainly, she has become accustomed to reading his reactions and emotions  _regardless_ of the aviators, but, there were moments in which the eyes were  _everything_ . She listens to him sigh, and tilts her head.

“Dirk.” He amends, another scowl plastering itself against his features, and he pops another spoonful of his chosen painkiller into his mouth. Rose can tell that he’s  _avoiding_ her gaze now, and idly allows it, for the moment. 

She has to let out a soft little sigh, rubbing at her eyes, “... he jumped off the roof?”

Already she can feel every instinct she has screaming at Dave, but she represses the urge to inform him of how  _stupid_ he is. No, no, Dave is already aware of his stupidity, as illustrated by the fact he’s trying to drown himself in something his body can only  _vaguely_ accept as comforting, due to the events which have taken place. She leveled her rage, carefully trying to summon up what she needed to say.

She cannot believe this.

_Honestly!_

“You understand that he wasn’t ready for that confrontation?” She asks, firstly, before giving into the more harshly toned inquiries, “That  _I_ should of been there for that initial feelings jam?  _That the roof was not a place for that conversation?_ Did you even confir-”

“... yeah. He caught me coming out of his room-” 

Rose winces slightly, before outright frowning. She moves to sit across from him, in an attempt to force him to look at her. “Dave.” He ignores her in favor of taking another bite of ice-cream.

“...” 

“I will take that away from you.” She determines, leveling a glare at the ice-cream. Dave shifts uncomfortably, before setting the spoon onto the counter, and glancing at her. “... I know I fucked up, Rose.” He offers, sliding the container in his hand onto the counter.

He fumbles with his sunglasses, grumbling, “I saw a chance, and I took it. I... just... I wanted to make sure I wasn’t giving myself a brain aneurism worrying about him if I didn’t have anything to actually be worrying about so I might have broke every damn law of privacy in the world and totally destroyed my little brother’s trust but honestly-”

Rose couldn’t help the look that surfaced amongst her glowering at the ice-cream, but she held her tongue as Dave rambled onwards.

“-I had to look, just, just to make sure I wasn’t being a douchecanoe and was right about what was going on, I was going to go fucking bananas trying to play the brother bother game, fuck, he got wise really fucking fast, and I swear, I was fucking slick-” He let out a breathy grumble at this, leaning on his elbow and bringing a hand to his cheek.

“... so, I just... I’m stupid and I’m sorry. He saw me and I  _knew_ there wasn’t any fucking thing I could do unless I dragged him to the roof. Your room was too far away, he was already thinking of high tailing it, and I... I might have gone alpha on his ass and demanded him to get his butt to the roof. So we talked it out, he’s... adamant about not rebuilding his wall, and he very coyly managed to jump off the damn roof, okay?”

Rose smoothly interjected a soft, “Alright.” She debated for a moment pressing for the finer details, but, she determined that when she could talk to Dirk in person, she would have a picture better painted towards her capabilities. She could help him better if she didn’t hear it second-hand from Dave.

With another sigh, Dave shook his head and mumbled, “He’s hightailed it.”

“How bad did his fall look?”

“... not too bad. Not, I’m a puddle on the sidewalk horrible. ... got his shoulder and arm pretty bad, from what I watched. He was popping it back into place.”

That left her a little more comfortable, “Good, he wouldn’t be able to recover from such a heinous incident such as the tower of terror debacle at this point in time.” Thoughtfully, she glanced towards the ceiling, “He will come back, eventually. ... even if it’s just for his wallet, personal effects, and Cadel, you know...”

She was glad that the words seemed to perk Dave up slightly. Another chance, she had offered him, if only in the way of words. “... I’ll warn Roxy, however. You might not catch him. I know my brothers well enough to know whom they run to in a crisis...”

Leaning across the counter she pulled him into a quick hug, shaking her head slightly.

“We’ll talk about this more. Later...” 

She felt him wince, rather than saw it as she pulled away. Without another word, she left him to devour ben and jerry, whist brooding over his inadequacies and problems as he was prone to doing when things involving family came to trouble him. She had a blend of duties to attend to...

 

\-----------------------------------------------------

 

She pulled her laptop away from her desk with a soft sigh, and opened pesterchum. A wash of greyscale names and sparse colors greeted her, but she was quick to double click on a single name. It was unfortunately washed-out, not the bright and perky pink it usually was.

Offline, unfortunately, but, with the time-difference, that was to be expected.

While it was the early evening for them, it was a few hours forward, a veritable evening for her sister. No doubt, the other girl was occupied with a party of some sort...

 

tentacleTherapist [TT] has begun pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG] at 5:34 pm PTZ

TT: Roxy.  
TT: I hope you are sober enough to read this.  
TT: Pull yourself away from the party a moment, would you?  
TT: ... -sigh-  
TT: I’ll message you again in a short while.

tentacleTherapist [TT] minimized this conversation at 5:40 pm PTZ

 

For a long moment she stared at the screen, before shaking her blonde curls away from her face and minimizing the chat window. ... perhaps, her instinct was wrong in this front. Perhaps, they’d manage to catch Dirk before he went running for New York.

With a flustered sigh, she moved to pick her novel back up.

 

It’d all turn out alright...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (≧^≦) uwah! you commenters are too nice. -hides-
> 
> in, uh, other news,  
> ... whoops, I hit post before I could edit.  
> ... let me fix that. 
> 
> @-@;;;; eek, well, uh, the next chapter we catch up with Dirk and see what shenanigans he's planning


End file.
